The Rolls rode up it perhaps half a mile. Then it stopped at high iron gates in a high picket fence—a black iron fence, high, very high, sharp spokes like knives pointing upward, razor-edge-sharp, malevolently gleaming in the sun shine, cutting, killing long points like the points of gigantic upthrust sabers, protective, forbidding. Beyond the iron gates the white-pebbled roadway continued, curving away.
The motor of the Rolls died to a silence. All was still.
Then Burrows got out, a black automatic pistol in one hand, a huge black key in the other, and stood outside the rear door. Stanley rolled down the window.
"Is this it, Mr. Burrows?"
"Well, what do you think? Out, gentlemen. Yes, this is it, Mr. Stanley."
They climbed out, and of the three standing on the white pebbles, Solo, in the swim trunks, was most appropriately dressed—it was blazing hot, the air like a thick blanket of heat. Appropriately dressed, but he wished he had sneakers. The white pebbles, like heated stones of torture, burned at his soles. He kept moving his feet, dancing a little jig as the bottoms of his feet tried to grow accustomed to the agony.
"Whew!" Stanley said.
Burrows tossed the key, and Stanley caught it casually.
The black automatic was pointed at Solo. "Why the weapon?" Solo said.
"To assure us you'll be a good boy," Burrows said.
"I'll be a good boy. What choice do I have?"
"No choice." Then Burrows, his eyes not leaving Solo, the gun leveled straight, said, "Stanley!"
"Yes, sir?"
"The key. You'll open the gate. After we pass through, you'll lock the gate. Then, on the right side, you'll see a switch. Pull it up, all the way. That'll electrify the fence all the way around. Anybody touches it, he's electrocuted."
"But we have an arrangement, don't we?" Solo asked.
"We do," Burrows said.
"Then why all the precautions?"
"To assure us the arrangement will be kept. Just one hour, Mr. Solo. When we notify the authorities to pick you up—you and Kuryakin and Steven Winfield—at that time we'll also notify them of the electrified fence." Then he added sarcastically, "Any more questions, Mr. Man from UNCLE?"
"No."
"Stanley!"
"Yes, sir?"
"Well? What are you waiting for?"
"Yes, sir."
Stanley inserted the key and turned the lock, withdrew the key, pushed, and the heavy gate swung inward noiselessly.
"All right," Burrows said impatiently, gesturing with the black automatic. "Move, Mr. Solo!"
"Don't tell me you're leaving the beautiful Rolls."
"Mind your own business. Get in there."
"Yes, sir," Solo said meekly, mimicking Stanley.
And then the roaring sound was upon them and they turned, all three, and saw the wildly racing car careening directly at them, and already Burrows was shooting. There was the sound of grinding glass but the bulletproof windshield did not shatter. The car skidded to a stop on the white pebbles, and two men were running out. Solo recognized them—McNabb and O'Keefe.
O'Keefe, a famed sharpshooter, held a huge revolver in his hand. He shot just once, and Burrows' automatic flew from his hand, and Burrows was running. O'Keefe, tossing aside the gleaming revolver, was running after Burrows, and McNabb—quite casually, slowly, almost tiredly, not even looking at the running men—picked up the black automatic and the silver-shining revolver. O'Keefe closed ground on Burrows and, leaping forward in a flying tackle, hit Burrows precisely at the knees, and the two fell to the ground with a thud. The struggle was brief. O'Keefe pulled Burrows to his feet, twisted Burrows' right arm behind his back, and, broadly grinning, brought the grimacing Burrows back to them.
"Not bad, hey?" O'Keefe said. "One shot and I knocked his gun out of action. And not even a scratch on him, not even a sideswipe; didn't wing him, not a nick on him. Now you just be good, baby," O'Keefe said to the squirming Burrows, "or you'll spoil the whole thing. I'll have to break your arm."
McNabb stood smiling like a tired gunfighter of the Old West, limply holding the pistols, his arms loose, the muzzles pointed downward. Two-gun McNabb of the wild, old, woolly West. Calmly, as though addressing a PTA meeting, McNabb said, "Don't you worry about Eric; he'll be good. Eric is a veteran campaigner; he knows when he's licked. Don't you, old Eric, old bean? Let him loose, Jack."
O'Keefe released Burrows. Burrows stood motionless, panting, chin down. "Two veteran campaigners," McNabb said. "Our troubles are over, Jack. Relax." McNabb gave the pistols to O'Keefe and unhooked a pair of handcuffs from his belt. "You," he said to Stanley, who was standing round-eyed. "Come join the party, old Albert, old bean."
Stanley obligingly shuffled forward. McNabb handcuffed the right hand of Burrows to the left hand of Stanley. "There's your package, all wrapped up for you, Mr. O'Keefe," McNabb said. "Make them comfortable."
O'Keefe herded them into the backseat of the car and got in with them, and now McNabb turned smilingly on Solo.
"Going swimming, Mr. Solo?"
"This is the day for it, Mr. McNabb."
"What's with all the nudity? What's with swim trunks?"
"Burrows thought it safer—for them—if he stripped me down."
"Got to hand it to him. He's a wise old campaigner."
"Now what's this all about, Mr. McNabb?"
McNabb drew out a handkerchief, wiped his face. "Hot day, hey?"
"Yes, it's a hot day. What's this all about, McNabb?"
"Defection. A young girl. Pamela Hunter. You were in for the works. They were going to give you the cyanide business in a locked room—you, Illya, and the ambassador's kid. Too rough on a young girl, a new recruit. Couldn't take it. They laid it on too stiff on their new recruit; they weren't prepared for a failure by the vaunted Stanley. Couldn't take it. Basically a nice girl roped in by their phony speeches; you know how their phony speeches can brainwash a youngster till the youngster's roped in and tied up and a criminal by reason of crimes already committed. This little girl wised up in time, thank heaven. It got through to her—what they are, what they were making of her. Defected. Brought out Illya and young Winfield. We're in the clear, and we've got Stanley back. Let's go."
"Why the cyanide treatment? I don't get it. We were going along. We were giving them back their ace saboteur."
"THRUSH," McNabb said. "A basic rule of THRUSH. Kill the witnesses."
"Who witnessed? What witnesses? What?"
"Illya saw Stanley, Hunter, Burrows—could identify them. Young Winfield saw Hunter and Burrows—could identify them. You saw Stanley and Burrows—could identify them. A matter of recognition. THRUSH does not like recognition; the fewer that can recognize, the better they like it. Whoever can recognize is a witness—if not for the present, for the future. In their scheme of things the best witness is no witness—and a dead witness is no witness. Therefore the cyanide treatment. Let's go, young fella."
"No." Solo's voice was sharp.
For the first time McNabb showed concern. "What's up?"
"Inside there. Tudor."
"Forget it. You win a major battle; doesn't mean you have to win the whole war. There are reinforcements coming up and a new plan of attack, with the Old Man in charge. We've won our battle; we have Stanley back, and we have Burrows, and even the girl."
"But inside there—Number One. Tudor!"
"So we'll get to him."
"Will you? They may have a time schedule. If too much time elapses, they know there's trouble; they sacrifice what they have to leave behind and take off."
"So? Still we've won our battle—with no casualties on our side." McNabb was old, patient, wise. "Let's leave it to the Old Man's reinforcements." He grinned. "They'll storm the castle."
But Mr. Solo was young. "An onslaught—and Number One gets scared off. There's a house there somewhere inside, and we don't know how many eyes are in there watching. Me, they're expecting, and just like this—the barefoot boy in swim trunks. And t
hey know who I am—Burrows talked to me—Napoleon Solo. Me, they're expecting; I'm after Number One. I'm going in, McNabb, and I've got to go alone."
"Napoleon, wait! Listen to me; I'm an old hand. You go in there now, and it might be we'll carry you out feet first. You're a bright young guy, and you've got a long career ahead of you. Who needs you dead?"
"I'm going in, Mac. I appreciate what you're trying to do, and I do thank you, but your concern is for me and not the overall. You know as well as I do, probably better, that this is the right moment, and it may never happen again. They're expecting me, all dressed up—or undressed—as I am. If ever there's an opportunity to catch up with Tudor, it's now, and they themselves have shaped me up as the guy to do it."
"Talk to the Old Man on the two-way."
"He's more of a papa rooster than you. His major concern is his flock and you know it. He'll call me off—and from the Old Man it's an order. From you it's advice. Mac, if you were in my spot, wouldn't you go in?"
McNabb was silent.
"Wish me luck, McNabb."
"Good luck. Take a gun."
Solo laughed. "Where'll I hide it?"
"Yeah," McNabb grunted.
"I've got better ammunition than bullets. I've got facts. I'm not going in for a kill. I'm hoping to bring Tudor out. Facts, if I can get through. If I can talk to him, I may be able to bring him out. The old story––self-preservation. I'll tell about our reinforcements––an attempt at escape can mean death. The other way, prison; but prison, you're still alive. I'll tell him we've got Stanley, Burrows, the girl. I'll tell the truth—to save their skins they'll testify against Tudor; to get lesser sentences they'll testify that Tudor's the boss, the architect of the schemes of attempted sabotage and actual kidnapping, but none of that carries a penalty of death. Prison, there's always hope; there's precedent all the way back since that guy with the U-two. Governments will release and exchange political prisoners. I'm going in, McNabb."
"Go, boy."
"Protect my flanks."
"You can bet on that."
Solo passed through and McNabb closed the gate.
Protect the flanks. You can bet on that, kid.
When the others came they would have to wait this side of the gate.
A horde, no matter how subtle the invasion, could mean quick death for Solo.
Perforce this was Solo's adventure, alone. McNabb sighed and stood, a watcher at the gate, as lonely on this side as Solo on the other.
14. Turnabout
HE WALKED IN the heat on the hot pebbles. It seemed such a long time since the operation had begun; since McNabb had discovered Stanley at the airport so much had happened, events tumbling upon events. Now his feet dragged, and there was a heaviness in him, an exhaustion. He realized it was not physical fatigue; it was relief, a letdown, the weight of an emptiness. He had not admitted, not even to himself, how terribly anxious he had been about Illya. And he had worried about the Old Man, and the young boy, and the failure of UNCLE with Stanley, the disgrace—they had all avoided discussion of that—at having to release a dangerous criminal whom at last they had apprehended. But mostly it had been the worry about Illya, his friend for so long. Now Illya was safe, and now he felt the accumulation of all the worry, now it was upon him, the letdown, the fatigue of relief. He shook it off. He braced his shoulders, breathed deeply, filled his lungs. He thought about himself, his immediate mission, and it helped. The fact that he himself was approaching possible peril gave him an excitement and served as an antidote to the exhaustion. Suddenly, as though the elements were assisting in his recovery, it was cooler. There was a little breeze from the east, and he smelled the fresh salt-wet of the sea skimmed off the top of the ocean and carried by the breeze. He walked more quickly, alert, watching.
The pebbled road curved. There were trees and foliage, wide green lawns with marble benches, flowers, trimmed hedges, and bushes with red-blooming roses. Above, the sky was pure blue, cloudless, and the sun, westerly now, was a burning orange ball. The salt smell of the ocean mingled with the perfume of the roses; it was quiet, fragrant, peaceful. There was no sound except the pleasant chattering of the birds. He walked for a long time, perhaps a quarter of a mile, until the pebbled roadway curved to the house, a red brick mansion with a portico of tall white columns. He walked up five white marble steps into the cool shade beneath the roof of the portico and rapped the gold knocker of a wide white door. There was no answer. He opened the door and entered.
Cool, silent.
He padded, barefoot, through the rooms.
"Hello," he called. "Hello!"
There was no answer except his own voice coming back to him in echoes. He went all the way through and out the rear and saw the helicopter. It was resting on a smooth beach of packed white sand. Beyond the helicopter the ocean was gray, flat, calm, with little wavelets lapping at the sand of the beach. Inside the helicopter a woman was leaning out an open window. She was attractive, smiling, and tanned from the sun; she had gleaming white teeth, dark eyes, dark hair.
"Please come closer!"
He obeyed for two reasons: First, he wanted to come closer, and second, and more imperative, a thick black gun was pointed at him, and she was holding it very competently. The sand squeaked beneath his feet, and then he was at the helicopter looking up at her.
"Where are the others, Mr. Solo?"
He squinted behind the dark glasses. "You know me?"
"I've seen photographs. Stupidly, there are many of them." She had a low-pitched, harsh voice, and spoke clearly, precisely, and with authority. "Where are the others?"
"Tell Leslie Tudor I want to talk to him."
"You are talking to Leslie Tudor."
A woman! Amazement prickled at his scalp!
"Surprised, Mr. Solo?"
He nodded, gulped. "To say the least—yes."
"So much for that, for all the good it will ever do you. Now quickly, please. Where are they?"
"We have them."
"You what?"
"We have them, Miss Tudor."
"You haven't!"
"Stanley, Hunter, Burrows."
"The truth, Mr. Solo!"
"And Kuryakin and the boy."
"No!"
"But, yes, Miss Tudor."
"You're lying!"
"Gospel truth, Miss Tudor."
"But—but—how?"
The sun was hot on his back, but from the ocean the breeze was cool. The little wavelets swished quietly, musically, at the edge of the beach.
"You put too much pressure on a youngster. You didn't let the wine ferment enough, putrefy to rotten vinegar. You put too much pressure on her too soon; she wasn't spoiled enough yet, rotten enough to join in cold-blooded, useless, evil, multiple murder."
"Incompetent infant!"
"She defected, Miss Tudor, and she brought out young Winfield and Kuryakin with her."
"And Stanley? Burrows?"
"Taken by us. Intercepted by our people."
"Then why you?"
"Pardon, Miss Tudor?"
"Why are you here?"
"To take you out."
"Not on your life!" The gleaming teeth were still exposed, but it was no longer a smile; it was a leer of hatred, bared teeth, a silent snarl, the jaw stiff, the muscles at the corners quivering. "Not ever in your life, Mr. Solo."
"There are many men gathering outside the gates. I came in alone for your safety." It was a reasonable statement. He would use any statement, any ruse, any argument, to accomplish his mission. He wanted her surrender. "Many men, many temperaments," he said. "One of them might have an itchy trigger finger."
"Thank you for nothing, Mr. Solo."
Solo bowed his head as though modestly accepting a compliment.
"Will you put away that gun and please come with me?"
"You're out of your mind!"
"Miss Tudor, you'll get a fair trial. There are always two sides to any question. THRUSH is rich enough to provide you with the finest
lawyers. There may be technical loopholes, and you might win at a trial. If you win, you're scot-free; if you lose, you get a jail sentence, but prison isn't death. In time, you're out, you're free. I repeat—please put away the gun and come with me."
"And I repeat—you're insane."
"Would you tell me why you think so, Miss Tudor?"
"Gladly. And then we'll be done with this." She leaned out farther, steadily holding the gun pointed directly at his head. "Mr. Solo—charming, handsome, debonair Mr. Solo—you're a fool! I am Leslie Tudor! I'm not Burrows or Stanley or that little pipsqueak Pamela Hunter. I am Leslie Tudor! Don't you think I anticipated the possibility—this which is happening right now? Why do you think I'm out here in this aircraft?"
"Why, Miss Tudor?"
"Because I touch a button of this machine and it is up and out and over the Atlantic. In moments, literally moments, I am in the air and away, out of the territorial jurisdiction of the United States. What can you do, any of you? Shoot down a British plane in free air over international waters? That is an act of war! You wouldn't dare, any of you! I challenge you! Is UNCLE an outlaw organization? Would it effect an act of war upon a friendly country no matter the alleged—and as yet entirely unproven in any court of law—would it effect an act of war under these alleged circumstances? I ask you, Mr. Solo. Is UNCLE an outlaw organization?"
"No." Perhaps he should have listened to McNabb, wise old McNabb. Perhaps he should have waited and gone in with the others. Then they would have had her, within the territorial United States, a criminal alien bent upon conspiracy within the United States and subject to United States law. But would she have waited? How long would she have waited, her time schedule having lapsed? Had he been right in going in at once, alone? Or should he have waited? It was a question that would remain forever unanswered.
Leaning out through the open window she stared down at him, silently regarding him. He knew of her satisfaction, how much she was enjoying his consternation, how she was savoring at least this crumb of THRUSH's victory. And there was nothing he could do. He could not make a move. He was helpless against the wide round muzzle of the thick black gun unswervingly pointed at his head. Any action on his part, any sudden move, and the gun would spew forth its lethal charge, and death would end all hope.
MFU Whitman - The Affair of the Gentle Saboteur Page 8
